That Average Little Old Man
by wellhoneydont
Summary: What would've happened if Sherlock had chosen a pill? Intended to be an alternate ending; one chapter for the right pill, one for the bad.


Sherlock nodded cordially at the man in front of him. "Well this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." He stood and made it to the door before the voice of the old man made him pause.

"Which one would you have picked? Just so I know if I could've beaten you."

He paused, turned, thought for a second more before the curious side of him won out and he made his way to the table he'd so recently vacated.

"Ooh. Interesting." The cabbie took the bottle Sherlock hadn't and uncapped it.

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the man in front of him; he didn't trust him. Not that he trusted many people he met, but this man had the power to take Sherlock's own life from him. He was acutely aware of that fact.

"Go on. See if you're right."

"Sherlock!" John stopped dead in his tracks and yelled as loud as he could, knowing full well the man in the other building couldn't hear him. How could he have been so stupid? They were in the other building. Of course they were in the other building; it was just his luck.

It was also just his luck that he didn't have his gun on him. He had a clear shot at the man bringing the pill to his lips; if he'd had his gun he would've shot him right then and there. Instead, he watched Sherlock from behind as he slipped the pill into his mouth and bit down, releasing the contents of the small capsule into his mouth.

Both consulting detective and cab driver swallowed. At least the old man was honest.

A moment passed; Sherlock felt his anticipation grow as he waited for either himself or the other man to start going into convulsions. John prayed and hoped like he hadn't done since the war.

Then the old man smiled, and his smile turned into a laugh. Sherlock stared even more intently at him, anxiety taking root in the pit of his stomach.

"What?" he spit.

"Just like I said, Mr Holmes. Everyone's stupid, even you."

His heart sank into his stomach. Across the gap between them, John's did too. He couldn't hear any part of what was going on, but the glee on that evil man's face couldn't mean anything good.

"You chose wrong, Mr Holmes. Thank you. I'm only sorry my kids aren't here to thank you as well." He pushed past Sherlock with surprising strength and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock didn't move, continuing his intent study of the floor. This couldn't be right. The man was playing games with him. He had chosen the right pill; the cabbie knew it and was preparing to die like a coward instead of admitting that he had been outsmarted.

Sherlock couldn't say how long he was standing there, but all of a sudden he was falling, aware of the ground coming to greet him. He hit the ground with a thud and his head throbbed with pain. He massaged his temple to try and ease it, but that didn't do much good.

"Sherlock," he heard, but it was almost as if the voice was coming from far away.

Hands were squeezing his shoulder. He looked up into the face of his flat mate, very worried, very out of breath, as if he'd been running recently.

"Sherlock, let's get you out of here. Where did that man go? Why did you let him get away? He was old, I can't imagine he could've gotten very far yet. We can still catch him; he'll be dead soon anyway, I saw him take the pill. …Sherlock?"

John had said all of this in very quick succession, spitting the words out before he choked on them. Sherlock's gaze didn't move from his eyes the entire time.

"I was wrong," Sherlock said. "That average little old man proved me wrong with a damn pill. This isn't what I had in mind at all."

John stopped. He let go of Sherlock and stared at him. "What do you mean he proved you wrong?"

"Two pills. One bad, one good. My choice. I chose wrong." Normally Sherlock would have gotten irritated at John for being so frustratingly dull and launched into an explanation, but his head hurt too much and he was quickly starting to feel dizzy, stars dancing before his eyes.

"Damn it, Sherlock! Will you do anything to prove you're clever? You risked your life! Jesus Christ, you're dying." Suddenly the realization hit him and his anger melted away in a flash. Here was his best friend sitting before him, deteriorating, and he was lecturing him.

"Oh, Sherlock. Tell me you're joking."

"I'm not joking, John." There was a pause. "I can't see, John. My vision's gone."

His voice, normally so confident and pompous, was small and weak. For the first time since he'd met him, John knew Sherlock was just any other human being, afraid of being hurt. Vulnerable.

John had to push down a wave of emotion that threatened to break the surface. He took Sherlock in his arms once more, kissing his eyelids gently. When Sherlock opened them again, they were clouded over. The eyes of the blind.

John felt a small amount of relief knowing that he had been the last thing Sherlock had seen, but that didn't last long. Sherlock started shaking.

John held him tighter, pulling him into his lap and burying his cheek in the other man's hair. It didn't stop the shaking, which was getting worse.

"Oh God, Sherlock," he whimpered. "Just stay with me for a little bit. I called the ambulance and they'll be here any minute. They'll find a way to make you better again."

There was a small chuckle from Sherlock. "You and I both know that no doctor can save me. My doctor's presence is much appreciated, though."

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head. He wasn't even sure if he could feel it through all of that bushy hair.

"I know."

Sherlock pulled himself away form John's embrace and did his best to locate his lips. He didn't necessarily have to close his eyes, but he did anyway. He placed his hand on John's cheek, just to assure himself the man wouldn't be leaving. He was using all of his strength to stop the horrid shaking, and it was draining him fast.

"I love you, okay, John?"

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and noticed they were looking a little bit above his head instead of directly at him. He probably thought he was looking straight into John's eyes.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock kissed John again, but he couldn't repress the shaking any longer. He could hardly keep his lips centered on John's. He felt a tear roll down John's cheek and he brushed it shakily away with his thumb. He broke away and burrowed once more into John's shoulder. This was comfortable, this was okay. "I love you, okay, John?" were good last words.

John's hands knotted tightly in his hair; he tried to squeeze away the pain Sherlock was feeling, the convulsing; tried to make it all better. Soon he didn't have to.

The seizure stopped suddenly. John's world stopped for a moment before the first tears fell. He closed his eyes tight, the pain enveloping him, the tears starting to flow freely now. He pressed his face hard into Sherlock's hair, breathing in the scent of him. He kissed the top of his head once, twice, three times.

xXx

"We found the killer, Sherlock! You led us right to him. He's in the car now. You want a few words with him first?"

The words were out of Lestrade's mouth before his eyes took in the scene before him: Sherlock motionless, John holding him tightly, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

Lestrade advanced slowly, his heart in his stomach. He may not have known this man well, but they had worked together many times and he had grown to respect him.

Lestrade bent down and silently put his arm around John. The sirens blared louder and louder outside the windows, but the police force would have to wait.


End file.
